In answer Sormo E'nath raised his hands.
The scene shifted around them. He saw moraines and scree slopes rising behind the three warlocks, the dark sky seeming to throb its blackness overhead. The ground was wet and cold beneath Duiker's moccasins. He looked down to see glittering sheets of brittle ice covering puddles of muddy water. The crazed patterns in the ice reflected myriad colours from a sourceless light.
A breath of cold wind made him turn around. A guttural bark of surprise was loosed from his throat. The historian stepped back, his being filling with horror. Rotten, blood-smeared ice formed a shattered cliff before him, the tumbled, jagged blocks at its foot less than ten paces away. The cliff rose, sloping back until the streaked face vanished within mists.
The ice was full of bodies, human-shaped figures, twisted and flesh-torn. Organs and entrails were spilled out at the base as if from a giant abattoir. Slowly melting chunks of blood-soaked ice created a lake from which the body parts jutted or rose in islands humped and slick.
Exposed flesh had begun to putrefy into misshapen gelatinous mounds, through which bones could faintly be seen.
Sormo spoke behind him. 'He is within it, but close.'
'Who?'
'The Semk god. An Ascendant from long ago. Unable to challenge the sorcery, he was devoured with the others. Yet he did not die. Can you feel his anger, Historian?'
'I think I'm beyond feeling. What sorcery did this?'
'Jaghut. To stem the tides of invading humans, they raised ice. Sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, as their strategy dictated. In places it swallowed entire continents, obliterating all that once stood upon them. Forkrul Assail civilizations, the vast mechanisms and edifices of the K'Chain Che'Malle, and of course the squalid huts of those who would one day inherit the world. The highest of Omtose Phellack, these rituals never die, Historian. They rise, subside, and rise yet again. Even now, one is born anew on a distant land, and those rivers of ice fill my dreams, for they are destined to create vast upheaval, and death in numbers unimaginable.'
Sormo's words held a timbre of antiquity, the remorseless cold of ages folding over one another, again and again, until it seemed to Duiker that every rock, every cliff, every mountain moved in eternal motion, like mindless leviathans. Shivers raced the blood in his veins until he trembled uncontrollably.
'Think of all such ice holds,' Sormo went on. 'Looters of tombs find riches, but wise hunters of power seek ... ice.'
Nether spoke. 'They have begun assembling.'
Duiker finally turned away from the ravaged, flesh-marred ice. Shapeless swirls and pulses of energy now surrounded the three warlocks. Some waxed bright and energetic, while others blossomed faintly in fitful rhythm.
'The spirits of the land,' Sormo said.
Nil fidgeted in his robes, as if barely restraining the desire to dance. A dark smile showed on his child-face. 'The flesh of an Ascendant holds much power. They all hunger for a piece. With this gift we bring them, further service is bound.'
'Historian.' Sormo stepped closer, reaching out one thin hand until it rested on Duiker's shoulder. 'How thin is this slice of mercy? All that anger ... brought to an end. Torn apart, each fragment consumed. Not death, but a kind of dissipation—'
'And what of the Semk wizard-priests?'
The warlock winced. 'Knowledge, and with it great pain. We must carve the heart from the Semk. Yet that heart is worse than stone. How it uses the mortal flesh . . .' He shook his head. 'Coltaine commands.'
'You obey.'
Sormo nodded.
Duiker said nothing for a dozen heartbeats, then he sighed. 'I have heard your doubts, Warlock.'
Sormo's expression showed an almost fierce relief. 'Cover your eyes, then, Historian. This will be .. . messy.'
Behind Duiker, the ice erupted with an explosive roar. Cold crimson rain struck the historian in a rolling wall, staggering him.
A savage shriek sounded behind him.
The spirits of the land bolted forward, spinning and tumbling past Duiker. He whirled in time to see a figure – flesh rotted black, arms long as an ape's – clawing its way out of the dirty, steaming slush.
The spirits reached it, swarming over the figure. It managed a single, piercing shriek before it was torn to pieces.
The eastern horizon was a streak of red when they returned to the killing strip. The camp was already awakening, the demands of existence pressing once more upon ragged, weary souls. Wagon-mounted forges were being stoked, fresh hides scraped, leather stretched and punched or boiled in huge blackened pots. Despite a lifetime spent in cities, the Malazan refugees were learning to carry their city with them – or at least those meagre remnants vital to survival.
